<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Most Important Piece by orphan_account</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806497">The Most Important Piece</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, BAMF Tom Riddle, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Chess Metaphors, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, M/M, Sane Tom Riddle, Sexual Content, Sort Of, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:27:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”</i>
</p><p>-</p><p>Harry’s name being called on Reaping Day of the 74th annual Hunger Games is hardly a shock. Everything being not as it seems, even less so.</p><p>In an apparent game of chance where the outcome is almost certainly already decided, Harry is the wild card no one’s expecting — least of all Tom Riddle, a volunteer tribute with a great deal of ambition and everything to lose.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Tom Riddle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the reaping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello :)</p><p>If you think this looks familiar, then you're right, because I started this fic about a year ago and then promptly abandoned it. I'm gonna give it another go because this time I think I have a better handle on it.</p><p>The first three chapters will be almost identical, with minor - but very important - changes, so I would advise you to re-read them even if you've already read it.</p><p>For obvious reasons I won't reveal any MCDs, but if you are hesitant about reading the story for possible triggers email me via padraigendragon@gmail.com.</p><p>I hope you'll enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“... Harry Potter!”</p><p>Harry stood rigid at the sound of his name. He was sure a gust of wind could have knocked him right over in that moment as his heart thundered a rapid beat in his ears. Briefly, he wondered if this was what shock felt like.</p><p>But no.</p><p>He couldn’t say he was all that shocked.</p><p>The burn of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him made his skin crawl and the knowledge that hundreds more were watching him, judging him, from behind a screen was enough to make him want to make a scene. He didn’t dare, though, not when his eyes swept up and met those of Ginny Weasley.</p><p>Ginny was the picture of absolute calm, her features an unreadable mask. It was her eyes, however, alive with a fire Harry was exceedingly familiar with that kept his mouth shut and allowed him to be prodded none-so-gently to the podium. His eyes didn’t leave her face as his feet found the few steps up onto the podium of their own accord. It was a minor miracle that he didn’t trip, for which he was rather glad. He didn’t figure that would make the impression he would want to make.</p><p>Shame and anger twisted his stomach at the thought. It had been mere moments since his name had been selected from the cup, and already he was playing into the game the Ministry had intended for him with these reapings, even days away from the arena.</p><p>He took his place next to Rita Skeeter opposite Ginny and forced his eyes to roam over the crowd. There was the perfunctory applause Harry was all-too familiar with, but no cheering. In fact, it was almost eerily quiet once the clapping stopped. Faces young and old wore grim expressions. Any relief they might have been feeling was overpowered by the reality of two young people being sent to their almost certain demise.</p><p>After all, a District 9 tribute hadn’t won the Games in some twenty years, and Harry didn’t particularly feel like the odds were going in his favor.</p><p>When Harry’s eyes caught sight of a bundle of red-heads sequestered on the outskirts of the crowd, a pang of something sharp struck him in the region of his heart. Desolation was written clear as day on their faces as they looked at Ginny. He searched for his friend, Ron, and found that he was staring not at Ginny, but right back at him. His face was set in stony rage, and if he had not been too old by only a couple of months, Harry was convinced that right now he would be volunteering to take his place in a devoted, if ultimately idiotic, attempt to protect his sister.</p><p>Skeeter began rattling off the same spiel she gave every year about what an honor it was to be chosen for this momentous occasion. Harry thought, rather unkindly, that she could take her ‘honor’ and shove it up her arse.</p><p>She then turned to each of them in turn and asked — much too excitedly than was completely normal — how they felt about this opportunity. Harry’s scathing response died on his tongue at the minuscule shake of Ginny’s head, and he let her answer with some rubbish about what a privilege it was to be there. He could not make himself respond with anything other than a small nod of his head in ostensible agreement.</p><p>Skeeter stared at him from behind a pair of ridiculous purple glasses that certainly held more stylish purposes than practical, waiting very obviously for him to contribute something. He opened his mouth, barely taking in the warning look Ginny shot at him, and said, “I think it was only a matter of time, really, until my name was drawn from that cup.”</p><p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p><p>The only one who visited Harry before they dragged him off to the Ministry was Ronald Weasley. This was an even more unsurprising development than being chosen as a tribute had been.</p><p>Harry didn’t even consider the Dursleys showing up. He was certain that for years they’d been putting more slips of his name in the cup in exchange for extra rations. They were probably the only ones actually celebrating the occasion. Whether he won or not, they would finally be rid of him.</p><p>And now that his name had been called, he had successfully clinched the possibility of their precious ‘Duddykins’ ever becoming tribute, for this was the last year either of them were eligible.</p><p>Harry scrutinized Ron’s clenched jaw and red-rimmed eyes and assumed he’d just been to visit Ginny.</p><p>“Hi, Ron. Thanks for coming to see me,” Harry said after it became clear Ron was only going to stare at him, expression inscrutable.</p><p>Harry hadn’t been sure he would come, and he wouldn’t have blamed him, either, for wanting to stay with his sister. Even if Ron <em>was </em>about to threaten him on Ginny’s behalf, Harry was absurdly grateful that anyone bothered to see him at all before he was swept away and likely wouldn’t see any of them ever again.</p><p>“Of course I came, Harry. You’re my best mate.” Ron wasn’t looking at him now. His shoulders were curled inwards, like an immense weight had been placed upon his shoulders, and a sudden wave of sympathy for him washed over Harry.</p><p>Before he could swallow the words, he was saying, “I’m sorry… You know, about Ginny.” He winced and shut his mouth before he could mention Fred.</p><p>Ron shuddered, and then visibly pulled himself together, his broad shoulders straightening. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. That wasn’t your fault, there’s no way you could have stopped it from happening. None of us could have. It’s those bloody <em>wankers </em>at the — ” Ron wisely cut himself off, glancing about the room in a way that told Harry he was looking for cameras. And even if there were any, Harry thought, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Harry was convinced the Ministry had ways of spying on the people that only they knew about.</p><p>“Look, Harry,” Ron continued after a moment. Harry saw the struggle on his face and had an idea of where this conversation was going. “I’m not… I’m not gonna ask you to give your life for her, or anything, because that isn’t fair, but… I just— could you— ”</p><p>“It’s alright, Ron. I understand.” Harry smiled weakly in an attempt to stop Ron from looking so miserable. “Of course I’ll try my best to look after her. I’m offended you even thought you had to ask.”</p><p>A heavy weight was suddenly upon him as Ron’s long arms wrapped him up and pulled him into a hug that hindered Harry’s ability to draw breath. He didn’t even pretend to put up a struggle, falling into the embrace like it was the only thing keeping him standing.</p><p>“I’m gonna miss you, mate.”</p><p>“Christ, I’m not dead, yet,” Harry said, voice muffled by the press of fabric. His head was buried in Ron’s shoulder, and he desperately wished in that instance that Ron would just never let go. That time would cease, and he could spend the rest of forever right here.</p><p>But unfortunately Harry could not stop time, and Ron could not stay, and there was a train waiting to take him to the Ministry, a ticket to hell with his name on it.</p><p>And as the train sped by fields of wheat, a sight so familiar after years of staring at them from atop a hill, moving at speeds greater than Harry could possibly comprehend, Harry couldn’t say with any degree of certainty whether the life waiting for him was really any worse than the one he was leaving behind.</p><p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. sirius black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Harry had pulled himself out of the carriage—much bigger than the room he’d had at the Dursleys’, if that could even be called a room—he would temporarily reside in until they reached the Ministry, Ginny was already sat at a table filled with enough food to feed an entire family in District 9 for at least a week. Across from her sat Skeeter, who was mumbling on about something or other, Harry couldn’t hear, while admiring her inch-long crimson nails. Ginny’s hand was clenched around a fork, her knuckles white from how tightly she was gripping it, and from the look on her face Harry thought Skeeter might soon find herself dripping in stew if Ginny lost her temper before Harry could intervene.</p>
<p>He quickened his pace and pulled out a chair beside Ginny, plopping down. Ginny’s grip on her fork eased a bit and Harry relaxed, muttering, for lack of anything better, a low, “Hullo.”</p>
<p>“Hello, dear.” Skeeter’s smile was anything but sincere when she looked up from her perusal of her terrifying nails. “Have you eaten yet?”</p>
<p>Harry refrained from pointing out that he’d only just got there and hadn’t had the chance to so much as add a dollop of mashed potatoes to his plate and said only, “Er, I was just about to.”</p>
<p>Harry wasn’t particularly hungry, but even he knew how stupid it would be to turn down any food he was provided before the Games. After all, these would be the last true, filling meals he could count on before he’d be scavenging in the arena. He knew it was possible, likely even, that he would have to go days without any sustenance. His only comfort was that at least that wasn’t anything new. It was a small, bitter comfort.</p>
<p>Ginny didn’t say anything but took an aggressive bite out of a chicken leg that made her displeasure explicitly clear.</p>
<p>It was apparent she too knew the importance of eating, even if she didn’t particularly look to be enjoying it.</p>
<p>Harry helped himself to some of the mashed potatoes, chicken, and bread, and even some of the treacle tart which Petunia had baked on rare occasions but never allowed him to eat. It was as delicious as it had always looked.</p>
<p>“Miss Skeeter?” Harry asked after his plate was clean and his dinner had been washed down by two glasses of water.</p>
<p>“You can call me Rita, dear.” Skeeter breathed on the lens of her glasses, then brought up the end of her scarf to wipe them off, not once deigning to look at him.</p>
<p>“Er, okay,” Harry said, though he had no intention of making a habit of talking to her. “Do you know where our mentor is, by chance?”</p>
<p>That got Skeeter’s attention. She purposely placed her glasses back on the tip of her nose and regarded the both of them before huffing a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him, dear. He’ll speak with you tonight before you go to bed.”</p>
<p>“He won’t be speaking to both of us, together, then?” Ginny asked, sounding entirely unsurprised even though this was news to Harry.</p>
<p>“Mr Black prefers to train his tributes one-on-one.” Skeeter’s eyes sparkled like she was granting them an especially juicy bit of gossip. Harry supposed that idle “gossip” might have been the only way people like her found entertainment in the rather droll life she must live in the Capitol, parading around as if her will was truly her own. Upon reflection, he found he pitied her more than he could ever really hate her.</p>
<p>She reminded him of the Dursleys, in a way. They only hated the oddities of the people in the Capitol insofar as they differed from their own ways of life. Harry knew if, had they half the chance, they would happily don fluorescent wigs and eccentric garb if it meant they could abandon the hardships of a life living in an outlying District promised.</p>
<p>Harry refrained from asking Skeeter why Black only trained his tributes one-on-one, not expecting an answer of any value anyway and went back to eating. He told himself he wouldn’t stop until his stomach felt like it would burst, and he hoped he didn’t make himself sick.</p>
<p>After, Harry tried to talk to Ginny, but she made it clear she had nothing to say to him and hid herself in her own carriage before he could really say anything. It was probably for the best, Harry thought, because he didn’t know what he could possibly say to her. <em>Good luck? Hope you don’t die? I promise I won’t kill you?</em></p>
<p>For as long as he had known her, Ginny had been a ball of vibrancy and tenacity. Harry couldn’t imagine a world that existed where she would ever—<em>could </em>ever—just lay down and give up. Certainly not here. Certainly not now.</p>
<p>Ginny always spoke of the Ministry with a loathing that he could never quite empathize with. He had never had something as precious as a brother ripped from him. He had never had to watch a loved one be slaughtered, simply because the only people with the power to stop it had not deemed his life one worth saving. He had never felt hatred so fierce it was capable of toppling everything and everyone that stood in its way. Not even for the Dursleys.</p>
<p>Ginny screamed of injustice to anyone who would listen, passionate, reckless, and terrifying. She raged against cowardice and people so sick in the head they thought innocent children being murdered by the hands of other children an apt form of entertainment. <em>Pointless</em>, she’d shout until she lost her voice. <em>So pointless!</em></p>
<p>Harry was as awed by her resistance as he was wary of it.</p>
<p>The hostility Ginny exuded ever since she stepped up to that podium was more understandable when he wasn’t simply a bystander. He had always known, somehow, however subconsciously, that he was damned. He probably had been from the minute he’d been born.</p>
<p>But the undeniable proof, <em>Harry Potter </em>ringing in his ears like a prophecy coming to fruition, was different than an instinct. It was evidence that his life was not his own, his fate was not his own. Somewhere along the line, his future had been decided for him.</p>
<p>The sheer <em>unfairness</em> burned him.</p>
<p>So Harry didn’t blame Ginny for her antagonism. If anything, he wanted her to know he wasn’t foolish enough to stand in her way.</p>
<p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p>
<p>Harry lay in bed that night almost having completely forgotten about Sirius Black meeting with him, so it came as a bit of a shock to hear a knock at his door in the middle of the night. He wished he could say it had woken him up, but he could barely close his eyes for more than a few seconds before opening them again, his mind racing with endless possibilities. In his head, he died a hundred different ways, and Ginny a hundred more. If he could not even fall asleep in the relative safety of a moving train, then how would he possibly find any rest in the arena? These thoughts plagued him until he was forced to get up and open the door.</p>
<p>Black looked much as he did the few times Harry had seen him on television. Up close though, his eyes were a deep brown, not black. His long hair was an artful tangled mess and his breath smelled heavily of alcohol. Harry winced at the stench.</p>
<p>“Harry Potter as I live and breathe.” Black pushed by him into the room and collapsed gracelessly into an armchair beside the bed. The lamp on the nightstand flickered on without a hint of Black even reaching for it, and Harry thought maybe he was quite tired after all. “C’mere, Harry. Sit. We have much to talk about.”</p>
<p>Harry did as he was bid, closing the door behind him. He sat on the side of the bed in front of Black and studied him while he studied Harry. A scar as long as his pointer finger marred Black’s skin, running down from his forehead across his eye and over his cheek. Outlined in gold from the glow of the lamplight, it gave him a rugged handsomeness that was simultaneously unnerving and captivating. Harry almost wanted to ask if he could still see out of his right eye, but the question sounded stupid and silly even inside his head.</p>
<p>Black must have noticed his staring because he said, “That’s what happens when you trust people.”</p>
<p>Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Black sighed and bowed his head so that his hair fell over his face like a curtain. Quietly, he said, “These games… they change people. Even the most innocuous of us can turn into cold-blooded killers when we’re pushed far enough.”</p>
<p>“I won’t,” Harry said immediately, and then wondered where his conviction came from. He wasn’t stupid, after all, and he knew Black was right. People <em>did</em> change in the arena. Nothing like carnivorous plants, hellish environments, and homicidal children to make a person desperate.</p>
<p>But not him, Harry told himself. He didn’t want to become a killer.</p>
<p>Black looked up with a smile on his face. It wasn’t mocking or unkind, but almost… sad. Harry sucked in a breath.</p>
<p>“Of course you won’t.”</p>
<p>Harry couldn’t discern the truth of that statement and didn’t try.</p>
<p>“Petra Pettigrew,” Black stated, the name holding a weight of significance Harry could not identify.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Petra was the girl tribute chosen to represent District 9 with me for the 52nd Hunger Games.” Black smiled again, but this one was more bitter. “We trained together. We fought together. We allied with each other. I thought we trusted each other.”</p>
<p>Harry swallowed and felt his heart begin to race as Black turned to look out the carriage window, unblinking.</p>
<p>“She gave me the scar,” Black continued after a few long minutes of uncomfortable silence, turning back to Harry. “People change. You might think you know yourself. You might think you know Ginny. I’m telling you you’re wrong.”</p>
<p>“But— ”</p>
<p>“No, Harry. You have to remember there can only be one victor. You can’t trust anyone in the arena, and they can’t trust you. Ginny already knows this. That’s the kind of thing that will get you killed.”</p>
<p>“You talked to Ginny?”</p>
<p>Black nodded.</p>
<p>Questions were bubbling inside Harry, but only one really mattered right now. “Why did you ally yourself with Petra, then? Are you saying you would’ve turned on her? That you would’ve killed her?”</p>
<p>“I’m saying that I did.”</p>
<p>A bucket of ice water might as well have dropped on Harry for how chilled he suddenly felt. “No,” he protested. “No, I would never kill Ginny. I would never even hurt her.”</p>
<p>“You might not have a choice— ”</p>
<p>“No! There’s always a choice.” Harry felt hot, like his insides were burning. Something simmered beneath his skin, and his head spun. “What’s the point of all this? Why are you telling me this?”</p>
<p>“Because I want you to win.”</p>
<p>Silence fell over them as Harry pondered those words, still dizzy. They were words any mentor would say to their tribute, but the way they were said—frantic and unyielding—was a surprise to Harry. It almost sounded like Black cared about him. More than was normal, more than was expected, accepted even—like he was invested in him. Harry couldn’t for the life of him figure out why that would be.</p>
<p>“Merlin, you remind me of your mother,” Black said, apropos of nothing.</p>
<p>The entire sentence threw Harry for a loop—<em>Who was Merlin?</em>—but the part he grasped onto was, “You knew my mum?”</p>
<p>Harry could imagine how he looked sitting there, barely restrained hope and yearning pushing him closer to where Black sat. He never knew his parents, not even their names. He only knew that they had died when he was very young, that Petunia was very much <em>not </em>his mother, and Vernon was <em>not </em>his father. That they had found him on their doorstep when he was a baby and took him in. Certainly not out of the goodness of their hearts, although Harry couldn’t say for sure what the actual reason was. Perhaps because it made them look good in front of the neighbors, gave them the rights to some sympathy points. Harry could only assume.</p>
<p>Black’s face hardened from the inexplicably fond look he’d been giving him. The change was so sudden, Harry worried he’d said or done something wrong.</p>
<p>“They didn’t tell you, did they?”</p>
<p>“Who didn’t tell me what?”</p>
<p>“Those damnable Muggles!”</p>
<p>“What’s a— ”</p>
<p>“Nevermind that.” Black waved a hand that shut Harry up, even though questions were almost bursting from the tip of his tongue. “Your mother was Lily Evans, Harry. Victor of the 53rd Hunger Games.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t what Harry was expecting. He wasn’t really sure what he <em>was</em> expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it. Everyone in District 9 knew the story of Lily Evans and Sirius Black, the two Victors who’d come from the same district twice in a row, an occurrence virtually unheard of outside of career districts.</p>
<p>Sirius Black, of course, went on to make a life for himself in the Capitol, and it looked like Lily Evans would follow in his footsteps until a tragic car accident took her, her husband’s, and purportedly her only child’s life.</p>
<p>It never would have occurred to him that <em>he </em>was that child.</p>
<p>Black reached into the inside of his leather jacket and pulled something out from a pocket there. It turned out to be a golden locket with a red ruby carved into the shape of a heart embellishing the front. He handed it to Harry with more care than Harry would have expected from him.</p>
<p>“That was your mother’s,” Black said, leaning back in his chair once Harry had accepted the locket from him. “She wore it into the arena; thought it was a good luck charm or some rot like that. That’s what she said. It was left to me when she died, but… I think you should have it now.”</p>
<p>Harry studied the locket, fingers trembling where the chain was wrapped around them. His thumb stroked the ruby and his palm burned from where the pendant lay, pulsing with heat as if it were a living thing.</p>
<p>He thought it was probably the loveliest gift he had ever been, or ever would be, given.</p>
<p>“Don’t wear it around your neck, obviously. You don’t need to give anyone a reason to strangle you. Your mum kept it round her wrist.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Harry said, his voice coming out barely above a whisper. He had to swallow a lump in his throat, and he hoped Black didn’t notice the rapid blinking of his eyes, or otherwise just pretended he didn’t see it.</p>
<p>“Nothing to thank me for. Your mother would want you to have it.” Black looked fidgety and stood up rather suddenly. “I’m sorry… for not giving it to you before now. And for not coming to visit. I was good friends with your parents, you know. I should’ve— ” Black cut himself off abruptly, looking frustrated with himself. “Well, anyway, I’m gonna let you sleep now.”</p>
<p>Harry opened his mouth to protest—he had so many more questions he needed answers to; Black couldn’t just tell him all of that and expect him not to want more information—but Black cut him off before any words came out. “I’ll answer all your questions tomorrow, but it’s going to be a long day and you need to rest. Goodnight, Harry.”</p>
<p>The door falling shut behind Black when he left put an end to Harry’s argument, as one couldn’t very well argue with a door. But Harry’s mind continued to race long after Black had departed, thoughts of Lily Evans, his <em>mum,</em> taking the place of the imaginings of his brutal end.</p>
<p>Not once did the locket stop burning.</p>
<p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>couldn't help but post a day early since i got too excited, lol</p>
<p>if you're enjoying this fic, and have a moment, i would be really grateful knowing your thoughts :) i could use some encouragement &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the volunteer tribute</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>for the sake of this fic, we're gonna pretend that Bellatrix and Sirius are not related—or if they are, they're very, very distant cousins...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry woke with a jolt, his heart racing with his panic. Unsurprisingly, the many images of death he’d been envisioning the night before had carried into his dreams.</p>
<p>A burning heat in his palm shook him from his dread, and he looked down at his hand where it was clutching at a locket. He relaxed his grip as he remembered last night. Sirius Black coming to see him, telling him about his own experiences in the Games, revealing who his mum was, giving him her locket.</p>
<p>The information was overwhelming, even more so than it had been last night. His mum had been a Victor. His <em>mum</em> had been a <em>Victor</em>.</p>
<p>He knew who his mother was.</p>
<p>He knew that what he was going through now, she had gone through once before him. And she had survived it. The thought was almost comforting. Almost.</p>
<p>A loud knocking at his door startled Harry so badly he almost dropped the locket. “Up you get, Harry, darling!” Skeeter’s saccharine voice filtered through the closed door. “We’re almost at the Ministry! You’ll want to eat breakfast before then.”</p>
<p>The sound of heels clacking faded away into nothing, and Harry assumed Skeeter had left. He looked at the locket once more and then determinedly got out of bed and tossed on the clothes left for him on a chair that he hadn’t noticed yesterday. The shirt and pants were black, tailored to fit him perfectly, and the fabric was of nicer quality than anything he’d ever seen, let alone owned.</p>
<p>It hit him as he looked out the window and saw modern buildings whizz by that he would be in the Capitol today. That this was really happening, and that there was truly no going back. He didn’t know if it was fear he was feeling, or something else entirely.</p>
<p>He left his carriage with his mother’s locket wrapped firmly around his left wrist where his pulse was still beating rapidly.</p>
<p>Ginny was already at the same table they’d eaten at yesterday when he appeared, with Skeeter sitting in the same spot across from her. Her expression was predictably sour even as she remained silent, and as he got closer he could hear Skeeter prattling on about the Ministry.</p>
<p>“... it really is quite magnificent. Oh, you’ll absolutely love it, darling, it isn’t anything like what you’ve seen in that wretched little District you come from.”</p>
<p>“That ‘<em>wretched little District</em>’ was my <em>home</em>,” Ginny snarled, her fists clenched on top of the table next to her empty plate. “And I can assure you, if the Ministry is filled with people anything like <em>you</em>, I much prefer it there!”</p>
<p>“Everything all right?” Harry interrupted, looking between Ginny’s red face and Skeeter’s narrowed eyes warily. He took the seat beside Ginny and for the first time noticed that Black wasn’t there. This seemed to be a common occurrence, and Harry was unsurprised, if a bit disappointed. He still had so many questions from their conversation last night.</p>
<p>“Fine,” Ginny grit out through clenched teeth. She began methodically dumping food onto her plate without seeming to notice—or care—what food it was. Harry followed suit, his movements much more restrained in the tense environment.</p>
<p>They ate in rigid silence for the remainder of the meal. His stomach clenched nauseatingly when he felt the train coming to a stop, and he reckoned he could hear the shouting and excitement from those awaiting his and Ginny’s arrival. Although that might have just been his imagination.</p>
<p>“Ah, good, we’re here.” Skeeter stood up gracefully, as if it was a practiced movement. Her outfit consisted of a lime green peacoat and pencil skirt of the same shade. The colour wasn’t doing anything to help soothe Harry’s stomach. “Look alive, my darlings, or they may just eat youalive.”</p>
<p>Her grin was vicious, and Harry felt a shiver ripple through him.</p>
<p>They emerged onto the platform to an explosion of noise. Harry had to blink several times before he could see properly after the flashes of cameras blinded him. Trying to follow Skeeter and Ginny out of the carriage was an effort, even without people shouting and trying desperately to get his attention from behind barricades. He forced a bright smile onto his face and waved in his best imitation of open and friendly as he could stomach.</p>
<p>He cringed when a little girl, who couldn’t have been older than 5 or 6 years old, reached for his hand over the barricade, practically dangling over it with only a precarious grip on the edge for balance. A swell of pity rose up in him, noticing her bright pink dress—hardly appropriate for the weather, as cloudy as it was outside with a brisk wind coming from the west—and the people standing behind her, who he thought might be her parents. By the way they were shouting and grinning, they were only encouraging her. Did they even care about the risky position she had been put in?</p>
<p>Harry’s smile faltered but he didn’t let it slip. He followed Ginny, mimicking her confident march and how she held her head high, her smile as false as the people who cheered for her.</p>
<p>He thought, for the first time, that maybe he could do this. Maybe he could be what the Ministry wanted him to be. And maybe when he was tired of that, he could show them why he would <em>never</em> be who they wanted him to be.</p>
<p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p>
<p>The Ministry was immense. Even more so than he remembered from seeing it on the television. It resembled everything else he’d seen of the Capitol so far, except it was somehow… <em>more.</em> More ornate, more impressive than anything else he’d seen.</p>
<p>That was probably the point, he thought.</p>
<p>He and Ginny were led up to the ninth floor of the building, where they’d be staying until the Games began. They passed Aurors along the way, who were roaming the hallways and standing guard at the lifts. He knew them by their red uniforms—District 9 had some as well, whose express purpose was to “keep the peace,” although they seemed more inclined to eat the baked goods no one else in the district could afford and generally sit around all day on their arses being useless unless there was a disturbance.</p>
<p><em>These</em> Aurors, at least, seemed to take their jobs a bit more seriously.</p>
<p>They were told they would have the floor entirely to themselves, and it was certainly as grand as Harry would’ve expected from the Ministry. Skeeter had obviously been there before as she led them to a room with high ceilings and a polished, entirely black tiled floor. There was an inexplicable indoor waterfall—where the water was coming from, Harry couldn’t tell—and a giant window that made up the whole opposite wall.</p>
<p>Harry’s own room was just as stunning and even larger than the carriage he’d had on the train. The bed was probably his favorite part about it. He didn’t know what sleeping on a cloud felt like, but he imagined this bed was as close to a cloud as he was ever likely to get.</p>
<p>Too bad he would hardly be able to enjoy it.</p>
<p>By dinnertime, Harry still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Black, and he couldn’t help but feel like the day had been wasted away. His nerves were causing sweat to slick his hands and he couldn’t stop fidgeting.</p>
<p>The dining table was much too large for just the three of them—Harry, Ginny, and Skeeter—but Harry didn’t notice. He was grudgingly anticipating watching the other Reapings, which Skeeter had said would be aired on the telly after dinner.</p>
<p>Twenty-two other tributes. Kids, Harry’s mind supplied unrepentantly. Twenty-four of them in total. All of whom would die in the next few weeks, depending on how long the games lasted. All but one.</p>
<p>Harry realized he didn’t want to know them. Didn’t want to see their faces or know their names. Didn’t want to imagine one of them bringing an end to his life. Certainly didn’t want to imagine one of them dying by his own hand.</p>
<p>But he knew he would watch. He may have been many things, but a coward Harry was not.</p>
<p>That didn’t mean he didn’t flinch slightly when Skeeter finally did flick on the TV.</p>
<p>“Why, hello everybody!” came the voice of Gilderoy Lockhart, before his face popped up on screen, his smile blinding and his golden hair fashionably swept to the side of his forehead. Harry thought he heard a whimper come from Skeeter’s side of the table. “I am your host, Gilderoy Lockhart, and it is my pleasure to welcome you all to the 74th annual Hunger Games!” This announcement was met with thunderous applause. Lockhart prattled on about the Games as he did every year, and Harry mostly zoned out as he did every year, not interested in hearing the Games explained again. He already knew very well what they entailed.</p>
<p>“These contestants are already shaping up to be some of the most fascinating tributes since the 71st Games.” Footage of such Games took the place of Lockhart’s face on screen, showing Hermione Granger of District 5, and how she’d come out victorious. Harry remembered those Games and how Hermione had won by outwitting every other tribute. He didn’t listen to Lockhart’s rehashing of events, merely stared at the familiar up close shot of Hermione, her brown eyes hard and her lips a grim line. The footage panned out to show how her arm stretched out, her hand grasping a wand with a grip no one would expect from such a slight girl.</p>
<p>Lockhart continued.</p>
<p>“From District 1, we have 17 year olds Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy.” On screen a boy and a girl stood side-by-side. The boy’s blond—almost white—hair and pale complexion stood out in stark contrast to the girl’s dark hair and shadowed eyes. While the boy—Malfoy’s—eyes gleamed with acute intelligence, the Lestrange girl had something a little more unstable, a little more sinistershining from hers. “Lucius’ father, Abraxas Malfoy, won the Games 23 years ago and is subsequently this year’s District 1 mentor…”</p>
<p>Gooseflesh raised on Harry’s arm as he stared at them, already feeling whatever confidence he might have had draining like Vernon’s fleeting coin while he ill-advisedly visited those dank—and illegal—pubs.</p>
<p>Next was Alecto Carrow and Antonin Dolohov from District 2. They both stood painfully straight-backed, their faces twisted in threatening scowls. Harry didn’t doubt they were equally as dangerous as the tributes from District 1. An uncomfortable weight sunk in his stomach, and he clutched at it, praying he wouldn’t be sick.</p>
<p>And so it went. Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape were introduced as the tributes from District 3; Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were the career tributes from District 4…</p>
<p>Harry watched, transfixed, as each new tribute was introduced, the uneasy feeling in his stomach steadily growing into something physically painful.</p>
<p>He zoned out when his and Ginny’s own Reapings took the screen, not wishing to relive the experience. Staring at Ginny instead did nothing to calm him, however. Her face was completely blank, unlike anything he had ever seen from her before, and it set him on edge. Black’s words from the night before came back to him unwittingly. <em>People change. You might think you know yourself. You might think you know Ginny. I’m telling you you’re wrong.</em></p>
<p>The simmering came back, like something almost physical bubbling just beneath his skin. Harry shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and turned back to the telly.</p>
<p>After a few minutes, the last of the tributes were finally announced, to Harry’s not inconsiderable relief. He just wanted to turn the television off and go to sleep—if sleep decided to come to him, that was.</p>
<p>He wasn’t expecting much—he couldn’t recall the last time a tribute of District 12 had won the Games. Of the Games he’d witnessed in his short life, none of their tributes had ever lasted long. Certainly not long enough to be declared champion.</p>
<p>Harry figured that really should have been his first hint. After all, that would have been too easy for the likes of him.</p>
<p>“And last—but certainly not least—from District 12, we have Myrtle Warren and Tom Riddle—who is, perhaps, the most interesting tribute we’ve seen from this year’s pool of contestants.” The camera panned to a girl and a boy, both of whom were as different from each other as night and day.</p>
<p>The girl was small and skinny, her face drawn, pallid, and terrified. She stood hunched over with her eyes glued to the floor, and Harry guessed she was no older than fourteen.</p>
<p>But the boy…</p>
<p>Harry sucked in a sharp breath. The boy was… well, <em>stunning</em> was the only word that came to mind. He was at least two heads taller than the girl, and he stood perfectly at ease with his hands behind his back. His skin was like fine porcelain, his jaw sharp, and his dark hair was slicked back stylishly on his head. His clothes, while worn, were neat and well-cared for, and fit him snugly in all the right places.</p>
<p>He stared straight ahead with an air of satisfaction about him. This in itself caught Harry off-guard, but not as much as Lockhart’s next words.</p>
<p>“Not much is known about Tom except that he grew up in an orphanage and is the first person from District 12 to have volunteered for the Games in over sixty years.”</p>
<p>Harry straightened at that. Volunteered?He had <em>volunteered</em>? But… nobody from non-career districts just <em>volunteered</em> for the Games. It wasn’t a rule so much as it was a perfectly valid survival tactic.</p>
<p>Footage of Riddle volunteering started playing on the screen. Harry grew cold at how detached he sounded while saying the words that would change a person’s entire life, at how impassive he appeared walking up to the podium.</p>
<p>Riddle answered the questions posed by the lady dressed in pink—who Harry assumed was District 12’s escort—with witty intelligence and charm that would do nothing to endear him to the citizens of District 12 but would probably have people in the Capitol falling at his feet. His voice was deep and rich—unforgettable—but as the camera got a close up of him, it was his eyes that snagged Harry’s attention and sent a chill rippling down his spine.</p>
<p>They were impossibly dark, icy hard, and void of any of the emotion that might have matched his words.</p>
<p>He was startled by Skeeter muttering, “Why, he’s a handsome one isn’t he?”</p>
<p>The words hardly registered, however, because it was at that moment that Harry recognized this boy—from <em>District 12</em>, of all places—was perhaps the most dangerous of them all.</p>
<p>Skeeter might fall for the sweet poison of his tone, the deadly promise of his words, and the fabricated innocence of his appearance, but Harry knew better.</p>
<p>Nobody just volunteered for the Games. Not unless they had a reason. Not unless they thought they could <em>win</em>.</p>
<p>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we have our first glimpse of Tom! tell me what you think :) and what are your thoughts on our other tributes??</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry readied for bed that night with the heavy feeling in his gut having only grown heavier.</p>
<p>Dark eyes haunted him whenever he thought of the Reapings, even though he tried very hard not to think about them as he pulled on gray silk pajamas. They were too soft against his skin, smooth and weightless—almost as if he wasn’t wearing anything at all. He was sure they were meant to be opulent, but he decided he didn’t much care for them. Right now he’d give anything for his own worn, cotton pajamas. Just to have something familiar. Some way to remember the boy he had been.</p>
<p>He had a feeling he’d never be him again.</p>
<p>Crawling under the sheets did nothing to soothe him. A big bed with lavish sheets and a mattress softer than he would have imagined anything was possible to be might have been a luxury, had it not been for the hefty price. No kind of possession, expensive or otherwise, was worth a person’s life.</p>
<p>A knock sounded on his door close to midnight, and he hadn’t so much as closed his eyes for longer than it took to blink. At this rate, he’d get into the Arena only to promptly pass out and die of exhaustion. He was pretty sure that had happened before.</p>
<p>The door swung open slightly, and a head popped in. “Harry?” Black asked in a whisper. “You still awake?”</p>
<p>Harry grunted in reply, scooting up his bed until his back rested against the headboard and leaning over to turn on a lamp. The locket dangled from his wrist.</p>
<p>Black strode to his bedside and sat down on the edge without waiting for an invitation. He still smelled vaguely of alcohol, but Harry was coming to expect that from him.</p>
<p>After a moment where Black stared at him and Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, Black asked, “How are you feeling?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been better.” He’d meant for the words to come out wry and humorous, to try and ease the tension. But his tone was too stilted and, frankly, nothing about this situation was funny. Black nodded anyway, as if he understood.</p>
<p>Harry supposed he probably did.</p>
<p>The silence stretched and the uncomfortable weight in his stomach started to make him antsy. There were so many questions zipping through his head that he couldn’t manage to pin a single one down for long enough to figure out how to articulate it. What was worse, he didn’t know if he should be concentrating on sticking to topics that had to do with the Games, or whether he should try to get more information about his parents. He knew what he wanted most, but he also recognized he only had so much time with Black before they shipped him and the other twenty-three tributes off to the Arena—if he stood any chance of winning at all, he’d be wise to make the most of that time.</p>
<p>Luckily, Black took the decision out of his hands when he asked a question of his own.</p>
<p>“Have you ever made things happen, Harry?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>Black’s lips curled for a moment before he elaborated. “When you were angry or upset. Did anything odd ever happen? Something out of the ordinary, something you couldn’t explain?”</p>
<p>Harry’s face scrunched up in befuddlement. He thought he should be cross that Black was choosing to ask him nonsense questions when he could be taking this time to coach Harry in ways not to, you know, die. But he was simply too bewildered.</p>
<p>“I—what? No, I— ” But Harry paused, because maybe the question was not completely inane after all. Memories came to him then, instances where things <em>had</em> happened, strange things that should not have been possible. Those times he’d been chased by Dudley and his cronies, only to find himself suddenly out of their reach, tucked into a convenient tree or trapped on top of a not-so-convenient rooftop. The ridiculous hair-cut Petunia had seen fit to give him that had somehow grown back overnight. Dropping things that never seemed to actually hit the ground.</p>
<p>Black raised an eyebrow when Harry trailed off, regarding him for a few moments before grinning. “Do you know why those things happened?”</p>
<p>Harry had the feeling Black was about to enlighten him.</p>
<p>“Magic.”</p>
<p>Harry blinked. “What?”</p>
<p>“Magic, Harry. You’re a wizard.”</p>
<p>It wasn’t that Harry thought he had misheard. Black sat only a meter away from him, and Harry didn’t take him for the mumbling type. But he almost had to convince himself he <em>had </em>misheard, or otherwise accept that Black had gone and lost the plot. And if Harry’s mentor was actually insane, then what did that mean for him?</p>
<p>Black must’ve seen the skepticism plain as day written across his face, because he was suddenly shaking his arm until a slim, wooden stick had slipped out of his right sleeve and settled comfortably in his hand.</p>
<p>“How do you have a <em>wand</em>?” Harry exclaimed, his head racing. As far as he knew, wands were only ever used inside the Arena. He supposed it was possible the Gamemakers allowed Victors to keep the wands after they’d won, but Black was one of the few Victors notorious for having triumphed without the use of one.</p>
<p>“Because I’m a wizard, too.” Black brought his hand up and, with a flick of his wrist, whispered, “<em>Lumos</em>.”</p>
<p>A warm light started to glow from the tip of Black’s wand, as bright—if not brighter—as the light gleaming from the lamp.</p>
<p>Harry’s eyes widened as he studied the wand, unable to find any apparent source for the light. “How…?”</p>
<p>In District 9, the explanation for wands was really quite simple. They were just more of the same fancy, hard-to-comprehend technological gadgets that were commonly used in the Games. The wand was considered the most powerful tool—or weapon—in the game, as it somehow granted the wielder control inside the Arena; likeness to the control only Gamemakers themselves were usually capable of.</p>
<p>The tribute who controlled the wand almost always came out as the Victor.</p>
<p>But this wasn’t the Arena, and Harry found it hard to believe that <em>this </em>wand was a remote control a Gamemaker was secretly directing.</p>
<p>“<em>Nox</em>.”</p>
<p>The light disappeared. Harry stared at Black, whose grin hadn’t slipped for a second.</p>
<p>“Like I said. Magic.”</p>
<p>Harry could only shake his head in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. Was it? Magic simply couldn’t exist in a world as drab as this one. Or at least, not like the one he’d known in District 9.</p>
<p>But maybe in the world of the Capitol, magic could exist. Maybe it was different here.</p>
<p>“Here,” Black said, thrusting the hilt of the wand towards Harry. “You give it a go.”</p>
<p>Harry hesitantly accepted the wand. It was unexpectedly warm, similar to the heat radiating from his mother’s locket, and he suddenly had the uncanny idea that it was <em>alive</em>. Ridiculous.</p>
<p>With an uncertain glance at Black, Harry flicked his wrist in an imitation of the way he’d seen Black do, and whispered, “<em>Lumos</em>.”</p>
<p>Sparks flickered from the end of the wand, but eventually a dim glow reluctantly glimmered into life. Harry felt a thrill shoot through his veins. He’d had this feeling before, and now he finally knew what it was. Had the proof of it right in front of his very own eyes.</p>
<p>He had magic. He could <em>feel</em> it. It simmered beneath his skin, pooled into all the empty spaces in his body, warmed him from the inside out. It was incredible. Undeniable.</p>
<p>Harry stared at the light in awe, and then he stared at Black. Black, whose grin had somehow, inconceivably, stretched even wider. “Impressive. Wands are extremely finicky, you know.”</p>
<p>“How do you mean?”</p>
<p>“The wand chooses the wizard, Harry. They’re sensitive to their master’s magic. That means that not just any old wizard can control ‘em.” Black regarded him. “The fact you were able to get that spell to work using <em>my</em> wand on the first go… It’s impressive.”</p>
<p>Harry still didn’t quite understand why Black kept saying that. It didn’t feel particularly “impressive.” It felt completely natural. Easy, almost. Like the magic was only too happy to bend reality to Harry’s whims.</p>
<p>“<em>Nox</em>.” Again, the light disappeared.</p>
<p>“So, I have magic,” he muttered aloud, mostly to himself. The words continued to sound a little ridiculous but, to Harry’s surprise, completely true.</p>
<p>But what about everyone else? Did everyone in District 9 have magic as well, but had just never realized it? Or was he… special?</p>
<p>He had to admit, he couldn’t very well picture Vernon waving a wand about. The very image made him snort. But Sirius, at least, was a wizard, so that meant…</p>
<p>“Are all tributes magical, then?” It would make sense, if one of them was meant to control the wand.</p>
<p>Black hesitated, his excitement falling into a frown. “No, not all of them. You’ll come to learn that the Ministry operates in a certain way, for various reasons, and these Games are much more complex than you could’ve imagined.”</p>
<p>Harry swallowed nervously at these ominous words.</p>
<p>“The Hunger Games used to be exactly that… games. Sick and twisted, but generally only used to provide entertainment for the Capitol with the added bonus of reminding the Districts just who was in charge.”</p>
<p>“And now?”</p>
<p>Black smiled bitterly, as if he was pleased that Harry was catching on and starting to ask the right questions. “Now they’re used to reveal the most powerful witches and wizards from the Districts so they can recruit them to their ‘cause’.</p>
<p>“For decades, the Ministry was controlled by witches and wizards who took pleasure in ruling over Muggles with an oppressive hand, with Muggles being none the wiser to any of it.”</p>
<p>“Muggles… are people without magic,” Harry surmised, glancing at Black for confirmation.</p>
<p>Black nodded. “And they didn’t used to be so defenseless, either. Years and years ago, it was Muggles who terrorized us.”</p>
<p>Harry shivered involuntarily at the use of the word <em>us</em>. Because he was one of them now. A wizard.</p>
<p>“The Capitol separated Muggles from those with magic into different Districts—witches and wizards are primarily found in Districts 1, 2, and 4—I believe you know these as career Districts.”</p>
<p>Harry nodded.</p>
<p>“The other nine are filled with Muggles. Some witches and wizards, however, were relegated to these Districts for their opposition to the Ministry.” Black’s voice lowered. “Not everyone believed that Muggles should be subjugated, and that hasn’t changed… Your parents held those same beliefs.”</p>
<p>Harry’s head snapped up. “My parents?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Harry. Your mum and dad were part of a secret resistance that challenges the ideals of the Ministry.”</p>
<p>A fierce sense of grief and pride warred inside his chest that rendered him a speechless, gaping mess. His parents had been fighters—brave and selfless, defenders of the principles they had believed in.</p>
<p>It had always weighed on him to some degree not knowing what had become of them. Had they just left him on some strangers’ doorstep because they didn’t want him? What could he really think, since no one had ever said a word about his parents? But now he knew… Petunia Dursley (née <em>Evans</em>, how had he never put it together before?) had been the sister of Lily Evans. The same Lily who won the Hunger Games twenty-one years ago.</p>
<p>Lily and her husband—his <em>dad</em>—had been so much more, so much <em>better</em>, than he had ever allowed himself to imagine.</p>
<p>Harry had wondered many times before who his father was, but he had been especially desperate to know since the moment he’d learned who his mum was. But Black had left that night before he’d had the chance to ask. It had almost seemed like Black had deliberately chosen not to mention his dad. Even now, Black did not use his name. It made Harry nervous, a bit, but he had to know. This was quite probably his only chance to find out.</p>
<p>“Mr Black,” he began unsurely. “Who was my father?”</p>
<p>Black went rigid, his stare unfocussing, his face going curiously blank. That familiar uncomfortable feeling surged back to life in Harry’s stomach.</p>
<p>Then Black blinked, his gaze clearing, and a tight, forced smile tilted his lips up. “You don’t have to call me that, Harry,” Black said absently. “Sirius is fine.”</p>
<p>“Er, alright,” Harry agreed. “Sirius, then.”</p>
<p><em>Sirius</em> exhaled a loud puff of air through his nose. “Your dad’s name was James. James Fleamont Potter.” He snorted unexpectedly. “Merlin help you if he ever heard you call him <em>Fleamont</em>, though.” He trailed off, a reminiscent grin lighting his face that steadily dimmed into one of remorse. “I met him when I first came to the Capitol. He was my best friend. My brother, really. There wasn’t anyone I was closer to than him.”</p>
<p>A fierce wave of pure <em>longing</em> swept through Harry, a yearning to know his dad as Sirius had known him, that made tears rise to his eyes. He blinked them away in embarrassment and stared at Sirius, hoping he’d share more of his dad with him.</p>
<p>Sirius didn’t disappoint. “Best man I ever knew, your dad. Your mum, too, was as brilliant as you’d imagine her to be. Did you know I was the one who introduced them?” Harry assumed the question was rhetorical, because <em>of course</em> not. “Your dad was positively smitten from the first time he met Lily. There were never two people more perfect for each other, I tell you.” Sirius leaned over and pulled something from his back trouser pocket. “Here. Brought this for you.”</p>
<p>It was an extremely tiny book. Harry watched in amazed silence as Sirius brandished his wand at it, muttering a spell he couldn’t hear that caused it to expand until it was at least twice the size of his palm and two fingers thick. He could only think of how convenient such a spell could be when lugging things around. It occurred to him then just how <em>cool</em> magic was.</p>
<p>Sirius passed him the book, its cover a worn leather with an unfamiliar crest impressed on the front of it with two mighty stags on either side, front legs kicking into the air. Harry opened it to find it was a photo album.</p>
<p>It was filled with photos that moved—Harry wasn’t exactly surprised anymore, but he did think it was kind of brilliant. Many of them were of a beautiful woman with fiery red hair that he recognized as Lily Evans (or Lily <em>Potter</em>, he supposed) and a tall man with wild, black hair—exactly like Harry’s own—that must have been James. A younger Sirius showed up quite often in the photos, as did a lanky man with blond hair that Harry didn’t recognize. A baby with green eyes frequently appeared too, who Harry knew to be himself.</p>
<p>This time Harry could not help the tears that trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin as he flipped through the pages one by one. He appreciated Sirius’ averted gaze even though he knew it was only a pretense of privacy.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he croaked, hoping Sirius would hear the silent, <em>For all of it.</em></p>
<p>Sirius set his palm over Harry’s knee and squeezed.</p>
<p>And Harry thought nothing else really needed to be said.</p>
<p>
  <span>○ ○ ♙♙♙♙♙♙♙♙ ○ ○<br/></span>
  <span>○ ○ ♖♘♗♕♔♗♘♖ ○ ○</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey folks :) I debated whether I wanted to say anything or not, but I don’t really know how else to get what I want if I don’t ask for it lol, so… last chapter I received only 1 comment, which was honestly pretty disappointing and disheartening, especially since I personally felt it was a good chapter. I don’t want to ask for a lot—you needn’t write me a paragraph (although you’re certainly welcome to XD)—but I will say that, if you are enjoying this fic, and have a moment, I would appreciate so much you telling me so &lt;3 thank you!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey, come hit me up on <a href="https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and let's chat!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>